


heartbeat on the high line

by cloudteacup



Series: folklore series [2]
Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: F/M, Fluff if you want it to be, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26248954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudteacup/pseuds/cloudteacup
Summary: you miss your lover, santiago garcia, a little more today.
Relationships: Santiago "Pope" Garcia/Reader
Series: folklore series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1905250
Kudos: 5





	heartbeat on the high line

**Author's Note:**

> _but i knew you  
>  playing hide-and-seek and  
> giving me your weekends  
> i knew you  
> your heartbeat on the high line  
> once in twenty lifetimes_

on some nights, you dream of giant, deep blue waves crashing onto you and your body is paralysed, and the only thing you can do is watch everything you have get washed away by rough waters until everything fades into black. 

_and then you wake up._ on some days, waking up holds the same gravity as those dreams you have of drowning, at times heavier. on some days, it’s just a little bit harder to breathe. how ironic it is to feel suffocated by all the space you have around you, but such is the ache you’ve reluctantly learned to live with. you’ve stopped counting days and you barely remember if it’s been two weeks or two months or two years since your lover left. regardless of how long it’s been, it always just feels like he’s away for centuries. _“i’ll come home to you,”_ he said, but you both know he only said it so you’ll have something to hold onto. because when he steps into battle, it is all but a hollow promise.

you toss and turn and torture yourself, now facing his side of the bed. the duvet feels colder without him in it, and you’re starting to hate how fluffed his pillows are. sometimes they’re all you cling to when you miss him more than you normally do, and when he returns home he doesn’t know how many times you’ve cried and whispered silent prayers onto them. today, you’ll let your longing wash over you. today, you’ll pray harder.

santiago garcia, your russian roulette sweetheart, always itching to step on some landmine— a warzone, a mission, or a longtime lover— what’s the difference, really? you rock back and forth at the thought, years after years of domestic bliss, heated arguments, almost breakups, tequila shots, scratches down his back, trips to the supermarket, thick hoodies and baseball caps stolen off each other, and midnight drives to the beach because the bed feels a bit too small for your love that’s larger than life. to dream of spending forever with a man often so ready to put his life on the line was dreadful, masochistic even, but santi is the risk you’d willingly take every single day. 

the thing about loving him is you either love him entirely or you don’t love him at all. you’ll see his dog tags hanging by his neck more than his heart on his sleeve, and sometimes you’d think he’s practically married to his job. but that’s his life, and it’s been there for him long before you came into his life. and even then, he never said a word about how you lived yours. he loves you just the same, and he will, for much longer. you’ve learned to appreciate how he isn’t overtly affectionate, though, because he’s always made you feel like you’re the only entity in his orbit he would go through eternity and back for.

you recall the very moment you realised how genuine your feelings for him were. _“...and this is my birthmark,”_ you muttered, pointing to the small patch of discolouration by your nape. he snaked his arms around you and kissed your birthmark, and you dropped what’s left of your defenses to melt into his embrace. it was an october evening, three weeks into your relationship that’s long overdue (both your friends’ words, not yours). you never directly told him, but you liked the way he made you feel, not just when you were intimate. of course, it’s some other kind of happy frenzy when he takes you to a joyride through hell just to take you to heaven, skin on skin, and it never fails to feel better than the last time. warmth crept in and you blush at the thought. this man could be so sweet and romantic and make you squirm all at the same time, but you’re not complaining.

but most of all, you liked the way _you_ felt when you’re with him. without him knowing, he made you see and love yourself in ways you never knew how. it was whenever he was preoccupied with something and you stole glances— sometimes he’d be completely absorbed in thought, but sometimes he’d notice from his peripheral vision that you’re staring at him intently. and when he does, he always asks why, and you always say _“it’s nothing,”_ then go back to what you were doing. seven years with this man, and you still don’t know where to begin telling him how much you love him and how much you love the way he makes you feel and how much you love yourself being with him. because of it, you made it your mission to make him _feel_ it instead, and every time you _hoped_ he felt it. 

today, you miss him more. but you remember that he loves you and he’d come home to you, the promise not so hollow after all. you forget about counting days and just live through today, and if he comes home tonight or in august, you swear to keep him closer. and if he doesn’t come home, you’ll worry about that when it happens.

you wrap yourself in his worn out sweatshirt and move the curtains to let the sunlight in. the skies seem bluer, the trees outside a little greener, and the air feels fresher than it did in the past few days. and though you’re far from feeling happy, you figured this is better than giving in to complete desolation. you stare at the front door, and you’re sure your mind is playing tricks on you. you shrug it off. _come what may._

it’s the _santi is not here_ routine keeping you company from the time you wake up until you sleep. you walk to the kitchen, prepare coffee, walk to the bathroom, and wash your face while waiting for your coffee to be done. from mondays through thursdays, you drive to work and go about the day in the life of a stressed executive. on fridays, you’re rewarded with the privilege of working at the comfort of your own home. weekends are for nothing, like today.

you sip your coffee, wondering why it doesn’t taste so bitter. you know you don’t add sugar to your coffee, but maybe if you stare at the brown liquid swirling in your cup long enough, you’d find answers. the sound of a car pulling up by your door takes you out of your coffee musings, and you begin to feel your heart beating at five hundred beats per minute. the door knob turns, and nothing you’re feeling and seeing registers in your mind.

santiago garcia, your russian roulette sweetheart, is home.

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'ed! another work inspired by one of the songs off of _folklore_. also because i thoroughly enjoy yearning stories with hopeful endings— and i hope you do, too!


End file.
